


Ubbe Imagines

by xHonestSecretsx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Military, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, ubbe's wolfpack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-23 01:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16609712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHonestSecretsx/pseuds/xHonestSecretsx
Summary: A dump spot for all of my Ubbe works.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a girl whose husband is deployed! I had to get it out today as a Navy brat myself. I hope you’ll like it babe. It was kind of inspired by Letters From War by Mark Schultz. Not a son x mother relationship, but still.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c18c7edd8da981bd4a990e235547eedc/tumblr_phfiuuuCxB1v19l0n_500.jpg)

The seat beside you at the dinner table was empty. It kissed the white tablecloth, pristine despite the wine that fell heavy in your stomach. The roses Ivar bought you warm the middle of the table, contrasting against your full plate of the food you slaved so long upon. Thanksgiving lunch left little to be thankful for in his pessimistic eyes. There you sat with your hair in the ever perfect curl, claiming that at any moment, what if your Ubbe came in. The letter beside fallen petals had reason to think otherwise, illuminated by a brightness of a crystal chandelier sitting above your head.

“He could still come home. The war isn’t over.” Aslaug breaches the silence. Sigurd knew better than to open his lips at this time. Ivar… his mother’s hand was affixed to his thigh as if to tell him to hush. Hvitserk is the only one eating much at all and of course, you encouraged him to do so.

“If anyone would come home, it would be my Ubbe.” You murmur, swirling your glass around. A bit of alcohol drops on the crinkled paper. The water sags the ink.

“Don’t be stupid like Ubbe, mother. He is probably dead.” Ivar says ignorant of the state of mind you, Ubbe’s wife of five years, might be feeling. “Who goes to fight in a war to save someone else?”

You say nothing to Ubbe’s beloved little brother, excusing yourself as you push your seat out with a loud crackle across the ground. Taking your plate, you move to the kitchen, leaving the tear stained letter undefended.

At one time, the letters were long and sweet things.

 _You’re what I’m fighting for_ , he would write.

 _You’re so silly_ , you would write back.

But now, all those sweet things were forgotten. This letter, stamped with messy cursive and a name that was very much not his big brothers, sat as the focus of the Thanksgiving dinner. Ivar reaches out for the letter– the noise of plates whizzing to their deaths against the creamy walls, donned in the lovely white and military wedding photos from years ago.

Ubbe asked me to write you.

_He was captured, but regardless, he set me free._

_Yours truly,_

_B.Heahmund._

* * *

The leaves churned colour and fell from the trees cradling your country home. Tragedy has a way of compounding itself when no one was prepared. Aslaug’s ashes found their way onto the Christmas mantle this year of bitter circumstance. Your home suddenly went from a one person home to that of a two person one with Ivar’s presence. Nosy little Ivar who could not help himself. He had to see what you were writing Ubbe– when he was very likely dead.

You’re such a brave man. What a father you’ll be someday, one of the letters addressed to his brother said. Unbeknownst to Ivar, the little words made their way onto each and every letter you sent, an agreement upon the last time you caught Ubbe’s electric eyes at the full airport with many a soldier saying goodbye to their beloveds.  
image

_“When you make it home, we’ll have a baby.” You held his hands at the security gate, fingers laced as you tippy toed up, kissing him gently on his lips in his fine fitting camouflage. Through his kiss, you felt his bright smile._

_“Is that a promise?” He pulls back, drifting his hand over the curve of your hips to the small of your back._

_“I’ve never known a better man to be a father.”_

Now those memories seem far– chilly winters don’t only seem to last through March. They’re far reaching. Everyone in your family insisted Ubbe Ragnarsson was gone. He wasn’t coming back. Yet every night, you scuffed your knees by praying and believing, hoping every day that it wasn’t true. Never did you miss the opportunity to write him one letter.

Ivar’s eyes fell upon Ubbe’s last letter, framed in the kitchen while his so deemed window took brunch outside to the gardens Ubbe had been so proud of once upon a time. Bushes of bursting roses and other fragrant flowers tickle his nose like the first time he came out to see Ubbe planting them.

_“Why are you making her a stupid garden? Isn’t that a lot of work from her when you’re gone?” He asked._

_“Maybe.” Ubbe said. “But it will give her something to hope for.”_

He always thought hope was the stupidest of human emotion. It never worked for him. But when with you, it seems different. Almost like– there was something to hope for. Ivar sat with his law books wide open on the table while you wrote another, your pen scratching upon the dark tiles. Distantly, he heard the whirr down the driveway. At first he thought nothing of it. Nor did you, really, until it became unable to ignore. You straightened out your skirt as you came around to unlock the side of the wooden gate.

“Oh gods, no!” Your sudden sob bursts through the back, causing Ivar’s head to snap around. You collapse onto the ground as if the world was churning under an earthquake only you can feel. He lurches for his crutch under the sound of metal slamming, the car door. Finally, the day must have came that a man came to bring you condolences and a flag. The strangers steps quicken, your sobs sharpen.

He sees it before you do– a crisp uniform of shining golden buttons against blue that holds his chest tight. His white belt wraps around his waist, matching his slacks. The man’s snowy hat upon his head hoods those eyes– ones you would clearly recognize if your hands weren’t digging into your eyes so horribly.

“(Y/N).” His gruff, deep voice snaps your head up. “I thought you would be happy to see me with all these letters you sent me.”

Ivar relaxes back in his chair as your hands leave your face, thrusting around Ubbe’s neck with such force that his best uniform streaks with stains of the lush grass underneath the both of your bodies. The fat envelopes of bound together letters falls from the captain’s white gloves.

“Ubbe, you’re home!”

He gives a hearty laugh, full of all of the glee he ever had. Ubbe looks up to Ivar, nodding once in acknowledgement before looking back down to you. “I’ve come to make good on your promise.”

Ivar slides his books shut, bringing his hands behind his head as Ubbe stands with your hips against his, proud in his military best. It’s the first time he ever believed in hope.


	2. Injured Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was once her saviour. Now he needs help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Lisinfleur on tumblr.

_As a Christian, you were already in a bad place._

_This was a place of devils, and the worst of them, Ivar the Boneless. The first day they captured you, you thought it would be the end of your sweet virginity. With the dark prince himself holding your wrists down and Hvitserk– as you came to know him– fighting your legs apart._

_But it wasn’t._

_“Get off.” Ubbe had booted his honey haired brother off of your twisting limbs. Ivar’s fun was slashed apart when the younger prince helped you to your feet. The women around you clamoured for help also, but the eldest prince touched your cheek. The blood splattered thing was soft despite his war born callouses. When he looked back to his brothers, you didn’t recognize anything else he said. But, maybe you didn’t need words. Instead his soft touch guided you to safety._

It had been still since earlier. It was late. You should not have been out of bed, fetching cool water and rags torn from the bottom of your down to deal with what, in your mind, had to be dealt with. Some time later there was a groan on the other side of the door. It churned open with a hissing creak. Your eyes snatch with your bucket, unable to look up. Today was not the time to be shy.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, turning his head down both ways of the hall. A braver woman would have spoken immediately. You waver, puffing out a small breath as you muster all the courage in your bones up to speak.

“You’re hurt.”

He pulls you into the room, shutting the door with a click. Prince Hvitserk is asleep on the bed, still in his armour. The brothers must have been exhausted if both had simply collapsed. Even Prince Ubbe hadn’t changed out of his clothes. He smells distinctly of splattered, irony blood and thick sweat.

When you finally turn your eyes up to his, he leans over you with his braid draped over his shoulder. It’s a nasty wound that brews in red blood. The swelling puffs his eye in deep purples and tinted reds. If looking at it was any justice, you knew that Ubbe was in pain.

And no other thrall had come to his aid.

“What is it you have there?” Ubbe says as you take your vase, setting it down to the cold, stone floor.

“It’s a tea. For the wound.” You look to his empty cup that sits on a table, taking it to pour a mixture of vervain, thistle and mugwort. He takes it of your fingers, swirling it around between his thumb and middle finger, slightly dangling.

“You made this why?” He asks turning up his eyebrows. You offer up the water to him. In a world where all of the slaves had turned to Ivar’s will, you had stood alone outside of him. Ubbe holds your eyes in a stringently awkward gaze. His eyes were sharp as they search for any sign of a lie, but you offer none and submissively turn your eyes away.

“You saved me.” You answer.

There’s a quiet when Ubbe finally recedes back into a large chair, draping his forearms over the arms. He brings the cup to his lips for a swig, hissing at the bitterness of the bland tea.

“Come. Someone will see.” He allows you to approach his side. You set the bucket atop of the table and fetch the rags made of strips from your dress, dipping them into the cool water. Your hands are shaking so violently, you curse them for their errant ways. A son of Ragnar is as scary as the demons at the command of the devil.

Ubbe realizes his eyes have been unnecessarily harsh. He softens, firming your shuddering hand around his bloodied cheekbones. Your fingertips obey your movements against the crescent of his swollen face.

“Does it hurt much? I bet it does.” You try to make small talk. After all, the lift of a thrall was very lonely. It was hard days work with little to no pay off at the end of it. Some thralls received the pleasure of marriage and others slept with the princes. You were neither. A quiet, shy girl whose only pleasure was paying back the deed Ubbe had done.

“It’s nothing that won’t heal.” Ubbe doesn’t bat an inch as you dampen your cloth. The clear water deepens with dark blood. “But you’ve done worse. You’ve disobeyed Ivar.”

He points out the command that hadn’t missed his ears. All thralls would let the older princes see what it is like to be disobedient. The disobedient would not get the treats and love that Ivar had to offer. They would struggle.

Except, you had disobeyed him.

“It’s okay. I’m getting really used to whippings.” You gaze over his wounds. They have clotted, but still protest your cleaning. You swipe the clean rags over the blood dripping into Ubbe’s ruddy beard. Thick facial hair helps your problem none. Still as you clean him, you know that this could have very dangerous consequences. But at least, in your heart, you would know you did the right thing. Ubbe drops his head back away from the rag.

“Stay the night here.” Ubbe says while you step away from him.

“Here?” You say. Were you hearing things right? Ubbe stands back up, downing the rest of that bitter, awful tea.

“In our bed.” Ubbe makes his way back to the bed. WIth a small grunt of approval he disappears back to where his brother is. Before long, you hear both brothers snoring away in the dead of night. Strike two for why Ubbe confused you.

Why did he keep trying to rescue you? It was a question you wished you could answer. Just like you wished you had the courage to climb into their bed. The cold corner looks much more comfortable.

So you sleep on the floor that night.


	3. Drabble: Let Me Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubbe and Hvitserk encounter a single mom.

Their phones buzzed with a flurry of numbers from women. Single, not single. It was all the same to them. Stay minimally interested and it would be fine. So after prowling the mall for women, they were on their way out. No muss, no fuss. Except when Ubbe caught a sight when he couldn’t ignore in the parking lot.

There is some frustrated huffs: the noise of a woman who was very much young. She looks to be perhaps in her early twenties, battling it out with a grey and purple stroller.

“Hvitserk.” He nudges his brother. Hvitserk’s gaze snaps in the direction Ubbe was moving in, nodding in agreement. His brother didn’t need to say a word more.

“Do you need some help?” Ubbe’s deep rumble sets her on edge enough to jump, looking around with the arm of the car seat on her elbow.

“No no, I got it!” She insists. The brothers look among themselves as she fights with the middle strap of the stroller to collapse it.

“Are you sure?”

Silence. After a few minutes, she concedes. Ubbe dips down, his ruddy hair falling over his shoulder to assist her. He easily collapses the thing, easing it into its place in her trunk. The whole thing is a matter of seconds.

“Door?” He suggests. She glances over at Hvitserk, protectively holding the arm of her car seat. Ubbe motions his little brother to walk away before reaching for the handle.

“You don’t have to do things alone.” She slides in to carefully place her sleeping angel into their seat.

“It’s in the job description.” She stands up straight.

“What description?” Ubbe says as she sits upon the leather seat.

“Single mom?” She laughs.

Ubbe churns a smile, looking over his shoulder to Hvitserk with his hand still on the door frame to her car.

“I can fix that too.”


	4. NSFW: Run Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rut runs are breeding runs. Alpha Ubbe doesn’t usually take apart, but today is different.

It was thickly slathered in the air tonight. The ruts of his brothers created a domino effect. It began with Sigurd’s argument with Ivar over the treatment of a rutting omega. Now, it beat in his blood like the rhythmic beat of a drum during time for sacrifice. His cock was sore in his fingers, over beat by his fist around the shaft. It was madness, this was madness.

But he could think of nothing else to cool his head. The calm only lasted seconds before he was thrown back into the need to rut on something. Anything that could soothe this burn.

“Are you coming Ubbe?” Hvitserk’s voice was raw and hot, cutting through him. He tries to shake his head but even that is a feet that he can’t achieve without his eyes beating at the soreness of his member.

Rut hunts. A great part of raids– they were meant to seek out the ones in heat that were the best. The most fertile: the ones with the right scent that alphas could track for miles. Some were better trained than others, just like Ubbe. He felt it stirring deep in the most ancient part of his brain. Run in a hunt, breed a woman and making babies.

Margrethe was no good. She wasn’t fertile. She could never carry his sons. He’s crazed at the thought, lurching onto his unsteady feet. He tucks himself back into his pants with his little brother jumping in excitement. Then, setting his axe back in his belt, he jerks his head to the side for Hvitserk to lead the away. loved rut hunts.

Scents were funny things. Some appealed better to some alphas than others. For Ubbe, he felt one seeping through his skin more than another. She smelled familiar. Her scent was sweet but almost naturally musky. He could taste her on his tongue, smell her readiness on his lips. The noise buzzing through the open fields ring with blinding calls. Loud, he thinks. He can hardly hear himself think.

But maybe he could chalk that up to his cock straining his trousers as he ran– separate from Hvitserk. He sought out his perfect woman and found that no, she wasn’t in farms or the temple. Hauling off in fear of being bred was a typical. He’s taken his share of women blinded by the liquid heat that courses through his veins.

It’s a familiar ache to be in heat. Your body feels engulfed by the flames of desire like a funeral pyre in the cool winter. Sure, there are distractions everywhere. But its that desire, that seering flame that burns through your core, that allures anyone. Alpha like Ubbe– or across the way, squeezing luscious long locks of hair of water, an omega like you.

You’re like a doe. Eyes like a bottomless cup of ale, sweet and strong. He could have kept drinking in your sight as you stood there in a sheer white nightgown among pools of water. Witty omega to bathe in the water to throw him off. If he were any other alpha, perhaps he would have been thrown off. In his right mind, he would have thought that. Right now, with the water up to his knees, he could only think of the slickness that undoubtedly claims your creamy soft thighs. Claiming that slick, owning that sweetness and breeding the warmth between your legs.

Your eyes have caught one another for what seemed like long moments. You finally stretch upright, a playful glint beating in your eyes. His fingers twitch, breathing in the thick pheromones you put out. You’re almost cockily preening yourself, ignoring the hot friction burning across your legs to dart almost flirtatiously out of the water. Flirtatiously because he knows damn well a woman does not need to pop her thick, luscious hips as hard as you were.

Ubbe’s boots squelch as he takes after you. The normally still waters of this river churn under him. He aches for it all, the chase that brings him beating down the water’s edge after you. The satisfaction when he seizes you in a squishy sounding run, twisting you around and slamming you into sand. Your squeals are hot with excitement, mewling in the wet heat between your legs. Ubbe takes ahold of the sopping wet fabric and all but tears it to get wet pounds of it away.

He has his sweet prize. He can almost taste it, it was so close. Ubbe cages you in and reveals as much skin as he can to his greedy hands. They’re struck with tremors. He loosens his trousers quickly, quickly realizing that it isn’t his hands that pull his dick from their confines. It’s yours. His are far too shaky, pinning your thighs to spread apart. Your hips cant back and forth, tilting to receive him. It should have been embarassing for any chaste woman– but there’s something about you he can’t place.

You’re his desire. He glorifies the thought with his dick hard against your core. Your hips never still, shifting listlessly. A sudden pressure at the base of his neck tells him that your hand has grasped his braid tight, yanking him down low.

“Get in.” Whether a whine, a beg or an order, Ubbe doesn’t care. He sinks himself deep with nothing. No lick of foreplay, no ache prep or concern for such things. Ubbe’s blue eyes are glistening almost electrically, keeping your eyes with his as he sunk in every inch. He hilts himself and quickly finds himself dismayed that he couldn’t push in deeper between your warm folds. He hits his end, mashing his hips for every second of friction he could possibly capture between your spasming heat.

Garbled cries urge his hips back to pound deep in a motion that isn’t just harsh and desperate. It could have been punishing. From what? From running from your alpha. Mark or no mark, that was what you were. His. His for now, his for later. Ubbe sought more punched out moans when your hands drop from his tightly knit braid to course up the tight muscles along his shoulders. You tug him forward by his nape against your lips, long and sloppy kisses marring his lips and even facial hair like the deepest of wounds. Or so it feels, because he longs for more when he pulls from you. His forearms stutter forward to cage in your head.

“What is your name?” Ubbe gives you a harsh thrust, balls deep within your cunt that holds him so tightly. Your clit is erect with attention, burning for his love. At first, you don’t answer. It’s not until his thumb rolls against the sensitive bundle of nerves that you chalk it out.

“Please!” You stutter your name of your lips, slapping your legs closed around his shifting hips. Your hands curl around his neck, scratching beating red scratches against his pink irritated skin. He’s fairly sure the other alphas know he’s here– because he hears their noise die off into the distance. A rutting alpha was a dangerous alpha to intrude on their territory.

That’s what you are. His territory. He’s fairly sure that he would rip out another man’s very lungs for being in the same vicinity of you in such a heat. Your sweet mewls burn through his ears until finally, finally you give it to him. Your sweet heat subcumbs around him, soaking him in slick and milking him of his own. He isn’t sure what thrusts of your hips down onto his hips were for your pleasure and which are for his. He feels his end rapidly approaching, the pressure at the base swelling his knot forth. He’s close. He’s desperately close to expoloding under the jerking motion of your spasming muscles that envelop him.

Your hips work themselves more rapidly in time with his thrusts when your chalked out cries drown out into forceful grunts. You want him to come faster, need him to give you his thick seed. Ubbe needs nothing else for his seed to rush forth, spurting from his tip. He keeps pressing further, harder in with a shaky roar of his lips that signals his end. Ubbe buries his face against your sweaty neck, back curling as he gives his seed up.

It’s always awkward when he finishes emptying himself. His knot swelled so tight that he could not pull himself out– and now he stays warmly between your legs with his rut ache sated momentarily. More than it would have been left alone.

“Want to stay the night with me?” Ubbe rests his forehead against yours. The slick of his sweat sticks against your forehead; but you don’t care. You’re sore with his heavy seed, weeping around his knot.

“Once your knot goes down.”

Ubbe would have smiled, but he had a feeling this wretched knot wouldn’t go down for a while. Just his luck.


	5. NSFW: No More, She Said.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His wife doesn’t want any more babies. She harshly tells him to take a thrall– so he does. Her favourite one.

Ubbe thought he was reasonable. He thought of others before himself: namely his brothers. From Bjorn to Ivar, he tried to be the responsible one. After all, he was more like a father figure than any kind of brother to his full blooded brothers. But… sometimes, he felt an itch. An itch to the howl of the wolf that burst through his blood. Usually he could easily sate this itch by asking his wife for another.

_“Let’s have a daughter.” Ubbe said over dinner. His wife, a beautiful redhead, had given him five. One of which sat on his lap eating his dinner with his fiery red hair falling over bright blue doe like eyes. All sons. He should have been proud that the gods had blessed him with so many just like his father._

_“I’ve already given you five sons.” She said boredly as she dropped her fork with a clang. The two pairs of twins were old now. The youngest was three– old enough to begin his own chores around the house. Even if it was picking up his things and faking to sweep. In Ubbe’s mind, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t given her enough thralls. She had copious amounts. He had brought her back the most beautiful and exotic ones to boast about. Dark ones from the traders of Africa and some from the Mediterranean where Bjorn and Hvitserk had gone. He brought her pure golden jewels, luxurious pearl lined pins and… she was spoiled rotten._

_“Sons, I have plenty. But I want a daughter. None of my brothers have one.” Ubbe held her gaze as his son finishes dinner. He sat him down and strolled around her chair. “You’ve always wanted one. It will just be one daughter, Lifa.”_

_Her temper quickly flared. “If you want more sons, there are plenty of thralls with open wombs for you to buy.”_

All he fucking wanted was a daughter. Now he sat nursing his pride in the Great Hall where you were. Sweeping away the day’s mess with a broom. He sent all the other thralls away to stare at you. The only thrall that Ivar would let help him. The only thrall that Lifa spoiled with rich blue fabrics. You were… desirable to everyone. That meant you were an object to posses.

He clangs his golden goblet and waits for you to drop the broom. You wipe your hands over your muddy brown apron and come close with a pitcher of ale. Your plush lips spread into the beginnings of a smile, poor thing. Never realizing the thoughts that were spiraling in his mind as you devote the sweetest of smiles to him.

“More ale, my prince?”

Fuck he was trashed. You insist on pouring him more when he can hardly stomach what he had already. Well, he can’t help but feel the spite in seeing you here. Looking so damn pretty with your hair around your waist wherever you moved. You had better look fucking pretty with that deep blue dress you had on. It wasn’t cheap either. Ubbe takes you in with rapt fascination by the way his almost searingly electric eyes burn through that pricy dress, glazing from your breast to hips. You try to ignore it. Plenty of men did the same.

“Yes.” Ubbe says, itching his ruddy brown beard. So you pour him his drink, setting the pitcher back up onto the table and bend. Bend in the wrong way with Ubbe’s temper so poor. You don’t bend down to kneel with your knees. You bend over with your hips to pick up a strewn cup with an idolent hand.

Then something snaps–

Something akin to a ‘fuck it’ slips of Ubbe’s lips and you feel him come behind you, snapping his hands around the dip in your waist. You jerk in his arms, thrashing when Ubbe kicks the bench across the hall and forces you over his shoulder. Your hands snap to his brown vest that sits over a cobalt blue tunic, fisting it.

“My prince! Put me down, please!”

“Enough.” Ubbe says between the pitcher that presses to his lips. He downs the ale, growling out an ‘agh,’ as he finished. The empty pitcher slams the wooden table and Ubbe flicks his head to the side, braid waving with his sauntering step.

“Now I’m ready.”

* * *

Fighting was fruitless. It was frustrating to you and more than irritated your master who held you so tightly over his shoulder. It was getting you nowhere. Your prince had gone in the cold fall air and brought you here– to this cabin in which he kicked the door open. When he set you down, your legs were weak like a limp filet of fish. You fell to the wooden floor and rush back to your feet, staring at the man that hovers above you.

A rope lazily rests in his large fist. Realization slowly begins to set in and a strange, alien shock blossoms in your chest.

“Undress.” He says, jaw raised just so. There is a deep, mirthless rumble to his voice eliciting fear through your body. So you do. You peel off the cobalt blue dress from your shaking frame and then rid yourself of the nude dress as well. You’ve never felt so sluggishly revolting in your life when you lay on your hip, suddenly amazingly aware of the rolls of your sides. You bend your face, hiding behind your hair that covers your eyes.

“Good girl.” His voice trills a timber that even has your mouth running dry.

It’s all you here before Ubbe jerks forward, throwing you on the bed in the middle of the room. For a second you bounce on the furs, but its all taken from you when Ubbe’s hands snatch your wrists. The rope bites your skin, tight and harsh by Ubbe’s frantic ties around your wrists. It hurts– and it doesn’t hurt good. It just burns.

“Master what are you doing?” You dare ask– a whine ripping from your throat as Ubbe secures your legs.

“Are you bleeding?” Ubbe’s hand palms your breast. Slight, perky nipples at the chill of the room. You wish he would stoke the fire. Instead, he strokes down between your breasts across your stomach. Your jerk against the bindings, hips flexing away from the fingers that caress your smooth mound.

“No… no master.” You gasp as Ubbe spreads your lips. Your eyelids snap shut, constricting tightly at the juices that slicken your lips. You know what he wants. He wants to have sex, that much is clear. You aren’t uncustomed to the feeling when his fingers dip within your walls. He finds you pleasantly wet for him. Ubbe shoves his fingers in and out, stretching your body open for him.

“You’re not a virgin.” Ubbe notices. He drifts down your neck, leaving sharp bites in his blatant irritation. His facial hair is itchy against your skin.

“No master.” You agree.

His stare is long and hard, the corner of his lips pulling up in irritation. “Then this won’t hurt.” He slightly turns his face, taking up the space between your legs. It’s harsh and quick– the snap of his hips to bury his hard length between your tight walls. You’re not sure when he pulled himself of those tight pants, but obviously, he had. He fills you in one hard sweep.

You chalk out a hard cry and flex the dorsal surface of your foot, cringing your toes as Ubbe begins to thrust frantically. His movements are hard and angry, your walls struggling with Ubbe’s girth. Though you’re not sure why he’s doing this, you know that he is angry with reason. Did Lady Lifa upset him?

“You’re here to bring me daughters and sons.” Ubbe drops down from his place above you, hand tight on your jaw as he bids you to open your mouth. Your plush lips spread apart only to close around his fingers when ordered. You know this well, swirling your tongue around the tips of his digits while suckling him for allure. Ubbe’s hips stutter forward, slamming into your cervix with enough force that you pull your lips away, crying out in pain.

“But to do that, I suppose you have to cum.” Ubbe hisses against your ear, letting those thick digits drift down. Lower and lower, he grazes his fingers across your eager clit that lacks for the usual attention it was so used to. Your clit pulses for him, leaning into touch that Ubbe grants with obsequious smiles. You tighten so around him that he groans long and hard, pleasure dying off when he hears it.

“N-No. Master– Master Ivar!”

The moment the words left your lips, Ubbe’s pace shifts. The attention he gave to your clit was forceful in place of patient. His thrusts sawing into your body with growling roars that could have matched the fierceness of the wolves prowling outdoors.

“I own you. You’ll do anything I tell you to do. If I want to take you from him–” Ubbe snarls, hanging in your face now with his long braid tickling your nose. “I will. I’ll keep you tied to this bed until my seed takes.”

Months– months of coming into this place where he would keep you for no other purpose other than to breed you. He’d do it if he had to. You didn’t want to, but maybe in a way, you do. You can’t deny the way you tighten around him, milking him of his thick seed that is seconds away from spilling deep within you.

“Cum. Keep your eyes open.” Ubbe hisses. With no choice available, you focus on the sweet tease of his fingers against your clit. He works your body harshly, and in moments, you’re panting. Open, open! You keep your eyes on him for as long as you can. Inevitably the pops of pleasure snap off, coursing through your veins like something electric. You cum around him, bringing him forward with every pulse of your body around his shaft.

You hear him moan. A sound different from his normal raging growls. Then when he fills you, it’s with purpose. His cock pushes deeply within you and you don’t need to ask. His body has grown rigid above you save a few pleasured moans. You lay under him awkwardly as he finishes, easing his cock out of your hole. He straightens to pull his tunic off his shoulders. Then he comes back to you, pushing his white viscous fluid back into your fertile womb.

“Kiss me.” He demands drunkenly. So you lean your head up to do so. Late the next morning, reality hits. He took a thrall as a not so secret wife.


	6. NSFW: Daddie's Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddie!Ubbe and Spoiled!Reader

“Are you almost ready to go, princess?”

Ubbe steps beside his pretty princess in a vast master bathroom. His onyx suit was pressed and perfect for the night’s event. A stupid one between all of his mother’s children in which they would walk around and act minimally interested in their support of several different companies. Booze and dancing, that was what this meant. You could feel the buckle of his pants grinding up against the slender black dress you wore for the night’s gala.

“Almost ready, Daddie.” You say. He takes up his scotch that sits to the side of your many makeup palettes, only the best. Ubbe slips your hair from your shoulder, taking up a glittering clear choker of diamonds to slide around your throat. The choker straps tight against your neck. It elicits a moan of your glossy lips, receiving a firm swat to the back of your ass shortly afterwards.

“Then let’s go. Be a good girl.” Ubbe moves away for you to slip on your high heels. With a clack of your heels, you slipped out of the door. Then– Ubbe stops you for a moment.

“Before we go– I almost forgot.” He scratches his beard, walking over to the nightstand beside the king sized bed you shared with him.

“Guess what I found?” Ubbe withdrew a paper. The one that you quickly recognize as a blaring ‘75’ on your math exam. You audibly groan, having thought you had stashed that one well enough in your thick binder between all the textbooks, powerpoints and notes.

“Daddie you were snooping!” You complain.

He tsks his tongue, withdrawing a black thin cane. “Daddie doesn’t pay your school for you to bring home ‘C’s’.” He flips the cane in his fingers, leading the tip of the cane against the long slit of your skirt. The black of the dress contrasts against your skin. Ubbe flicks his head over to the bed.

“Present.”

You dare to whine. “But I got a 90 on my other one.” You flutter those elaborate, but false eyelashes at him. He knows all your tricks to get out of a whipping. Distracting him doesn’t usually work anymore but you still try.

“Don’t make me tell you again.” His gruff voice becomes heated.

Yes, sir.

It gladdens him when you crawl onto the bed, legs tucked tight. The smooth fabric of Ubbe’s slacks brushes the outside of your thighs on either side of your hips. Ubbe would glide your tight skirt slowly over your thighs, taking his time to reveal your ass cheeks that don his favourite baby pink thong that only highlights that fantastic ass. Ubbe’s index and middle finger rub against your entrance, gliding down the slit before back up.

“Count.” Ubbe grunts. The first was always the hardest. The first crack of the cane sent your lips reeling out a cry. One, you told him. He was satisfied enough because the second came soon after. Two, you followed up with, hands bunching up in the egyptian cotton sheets. Your ass burns under the sting of the cane. Ubbe’s toned arms flex another stinging strike, making contact against a welt that had already begun to form. Three! There was never any telling how many Ubbe would inflict.

You knew one thing as your cries filled through the room. Ubbe enjoyed it. His cock was twitching underneath those thin trousers, the neutral tone of your skin now angry by the force of his arms. “Twent… twenty daddie!” 

Ubbe gave out a groan, flicking the cane on the bed and doing as he usually did, palming the raised skin as if it would soothe you. “Did you like that princess?”

His thick fingers slid your pink thong to the side, a trail of excitement stains them. His fingers spread your lips out for him, engorged with excitement. He was slipping in your sweetness that slickened you just for him. Alluring.

“Yes.”

Something cold soaks in your slick. “Yes what?”

“Yes Daddie.” You correct yourself. Anything you could say is quickly cut off by gasping when a sticky cool slick spills over your ass. You immediately know what it is and what is coming. The pressure of feeling full, spreading around a pinkish jeweled plug. His other fingers hook inside your folds, distracting you as he pushes it to the hilt within you. Ubbe plunges his fingers in and out of your soaked walls for good measure, pulling out as your lips spread into a moan.

Short lived– and agonizing, Ubbe shoves his fingers into your mouth. Your glossy lips purse around his fingers, cleaning him of your juices. Your tongue swirled around his digits in smooth strokes. His fingers would slide free of your lips, dragging saliva down your chin. Disgusting. Ubbe chides, giving a final slap to your ass before sliding off of you. You replace your thong and draw down the so claimed modest skirt.

“Now this time,” Ubbe walks into the bathroom to wash his hands of the smell of your pussy. He adjusts his tie, head craning toward you as he comes back out. “You’re going to be a good girl… and not only when Daddie is looking. Now lets go, Ivar is waiting.”

Ubbe offers his palm out for you to take. Just maybe you are stunted by the metal in your ass. “Yes Daddie.”


	7. No WAY!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After coming home from England, Ubbe discovers he has a son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Lisinfleur

The first time he thought he had an actual threat on his hands was at the pier.

Mama said she had a surprise for him, someone special was coming home. He made sure to pick his best of best that day and was running circles around his mama when he saw the man step off from the boat that once lay in Kattegat’s rocky waters.

His eye is bruised, cut as if he had been in a fight. He knows right away– this wasn’t the father he waited so long for. But for some reason, his mother abandons him with the thralls beside him to all but leap upon the strange man. He spins her around, setting her back down and leans in. Too close for little Aevar who careens through the crowd to shove at the man’s trousers with his tiny hands.

“Don’t do that!”

“Aevar!” You shrill at your three year old. The man stutters back, hand at his beard when you drop to your feet, grabbing his tiny flying fists.

“Aevar that’s enough!” You try to hold your son, finding it easier to pick him up in your arms. “I’m sorry Ubbe– he, he doesn’t understand.”

“Who is he?” Ubbe leans in to ask.

The answer is written straight across your face– in a way that he didn’t even need to ask you anything more. This little fighting boy was his son. “Come Aevar, let’s go home.” You say as you waddle after the thralls. Ubbe follows in line quickly behind you because of all things…he has a son. A son that he’s never known.

* * *

“He’s very witty.”

He was still here! The strange man sat with Mama at the table. He thought he was smart, coming here with all those pretty words and sliding his hands around her waist like he was his daddie. He wasn’t his Daddie! He was a strange man. He knew so because his daddie was a son of Ragnar. No son of Ragnar would come home with his head hung that low. His mama was beautiful. That was reason alone to look forward to coming home. So for those reasons he knew Ubbe wasn’t his father! He had the right hair– and maybe the right eyes but Loki! Loki did it! His sweet mama was confused.

“He doesn’t know?” Ubbe asks, looking in his direction with a blatant stare. Aevar flips his bone in his fingers as if waiting for him to say something else. He would be listening, he was always listening when men knocked on mama’s door to ask her to come out. 

“Mama, don’t listen.” Aevar waddles over, pulling at your skirt. You look down between your legs to where he was clutching your skirt with pale knuckles, trying to explain what was happening. You tilt your head only slightly, picking him up against your breast.

“What is wrong, Aevar?” You mumble against his ear, covered by ruddy brown hair. Your little son looks to Ubbe, sitting on the otherside of the table.

“Daddie… He, he’ll be mad.” Aevar supplies with a little growl on his tongue. Ubbe pulls back with his ale, eyes shifting off the son he never knew he had to your eyes– as if to ask if you never mentioned his father to him.

“Why would your Daddie be mad?” Ubbe asks from the opposite side of the table in amusement of this whole ordeal. The way that his son fluffs up like a mad hen, ready to kick Ubbe’s ass out of his own home was far too cute for his own good.

“If he come back. He… He’ll be mad. Mamas’ his.” Aevar growls out, little nose wrinkling in distaste for this.

“She is, isn’t she?” Ubbe muses.

“Yeah.” He agrees. “That’s why you gotta go. I want him to come home!”

You shift to sit Aevar in your chair, taking up a plate where the thralls finished cooking. You would plate Ubbe his food as he sat waiting with his son, never knowing who he was, but likely wondering. You came back, sliding Ubbe his plate. Ubbe took up his spoon, digging into his plate of actually warm food.

“Why wouldn’t he come home?” Ubbe teases further when Aevar bites through his tears.

“He never comes! He hates me!” The little boy shouts, causing you to whirl around and enunciate his name sharply. Ubbe chews lazily on his cud, holding his spoon lazily before he swallows.

“Now that was a stupid thing to say.” Ubbe flicks his spoon out toward him. “I am your father.”

The words seem to fly in his ear one way and out another. The little boy takes out a necklace– a lock of ruddy hair that his mother gave him, tied with twine tight against a small piece of a stone. It resembles a stone pendant, wound by the hair of his father.

“You’re not! This is his hair!” He shouts, edging on a full out fit when you come to his side. You kiss his forehead, hoping to avoid another fit and pick him up onto your hip. You walk over to your husband, pulling around his heavy braid that sits down his back.

“Lets compare it to Ubbe’s hair, okay?” You tell your son, bending down so that he can glide the lock of hair you preserved against Ubbe’s. Ubbe glides his spoon out of his mouth when little Aevar leans over, looking from his pendant to Ubbe’s hair. A moment passes– and Ubbe dares to take a quick glance at his son. His eyes brighten up like gems, gasping over and over again when the pendant hits the ground. The little boy begins to flap his hands like a chicken in the wind.

“Mama! Mama! He is my Daddie!” He tells you as if you couldn’t possibly know that information yourself. You almost laugh when he launches himself off of your chest, diving into Ubbe’s waiting arms. He’s precautiously pushed away his plate for just this moment. Ubbe winds his arms around the little boy’s frame, hand dipped in his loose hair around his shoulders. The little boy wracks into heavy sobbing– and he can’t tell if those cries are good, bad or otherwise. All he knows is that his little son is finally in his arms.

“I missed you!” He shouts all at once, mixed up like a thick goulash. Ubbe nuzzles his sharp nose in the mess of his firstborn son’s hair, inhaling his scent that etches on his mind.

“I missed you too.” He says– and for more than one reason. He’s missed a lot.


	8. Drabble: Let Me In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows why you have panic attacks.

Ubbe swore whatever happened, he would be there to protect you. But you weren’t so sure he could protect you from yourself as his fingers danced around your naked skin, half dressed in his lap. Then it hit you akin to the splash of water on a hot summers day.

“Don’t touch me!” You spat out, thrusting his large palms off of your body. Ubbe lurched out as you tumbled off his lap, hitting the ground with a thud. You would groan and drag your sleeves right back off your creamy soft shoulder. Ubbe’s head lulled back in his chair as you stood on your weak two feet, looking for your overtunic.

“In the corner.” Ubbe motioned. “Who touched you?”

Keep quiet. You knew these stunts were becoming all the more common. You looked away from him as if you didn’t know what he were talking about.

“What?” You looked back to him. There was a very good reason you did this— but not a good reason not to tell him. He’d see you different; used.

“No one.” You lie.

“We have sex, you push me away. We go out, you look over your shoulder.” Ubbe’s eyes widen as he looked down to you. “I’ll find out.”

You knew that wouldn’t be an empty threat. At some point, you would be able to breath freely again.


	9. A Pinch of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's accident prone.

It had become a large deal for you to travel to see Uppsala with your husband. You wanted to go see the high priest, to speak to the gods of what might become of you and ask– why should a woman have these awful pains? Your body protested the journey up, and as such, somehow you had slipped. A little slip but being you– it quickly become a big slip.

“Ow… ow…” You found yourself leaning on your brother-in-law Sigurd, am arm around his neck as he moved beside you. You begged him not to tell your husband for fear of what he might say. How such a journey was too hard for you or how your wound would not heal well. The ever constant pain of your body wretched through your back like a bolt of lightning set by Thor.

“You should have been slower.” Sigurd says, sliding his arms underneath your pulsing legs. Your bow was flung over his sturdy shoulders as he walked on perfect legs. How nice he must have had it, you thought. He lifts you up into his arms as he climbs the slope. All too suddenly you become self conscious of your weight. Guilty too.

“Am I too heavy?” You say, setting your hand against his chest. Sigurd tilted his head to give you a look, followed by a shake of his head. As if he would even tell you if you were too heavy, he was sweet like that.

“(Y/N)!”

Atop a cliff, leather boots twisted against the cliffside to maneuver down to where you were. His braids sloshed side to side behind him. The rocks bounce off the top of the slope, rolling down over Sigurd’s legs. How he managed to find you so quickly everytime? It was a mystery to you.

“Ubbe I– You should not have wandered off.” He says immediately.

It was as good as knowing that your husband had been searching for you all this while. He had to be to know that you had wandered off in this general direction. He slid you out of his brother’s arms and into his own, starting back up the cliff while looking you over.

“Where does it hurt?” He asks.

You point absentmindedly at the fracture that had all too quickly broken through your skin. It should have been an agonizing pain— but you became used to the pain that came knocking on your door all too often.

“The break would be a good place to start.” You say sheepishly. Sigurd climbs the slope beside you.

“She fell down the cliff.” He says.

“It was not a fall! It was a slip.” You correct.

There was a difference? Ubbe exhales air breaching the top of the cliff. Your arms slunk around his neck, tight and sound against his neck. “I just wanted to be like you…” You mumble.

“Like me?” He asks.

“Hunt. Be Viking.” You say, sighing as you do. You wanted so much more than to be what you were– the clumsy girl married to the eldest of Aslaug’s children. Most people said it was a waste. That even the slave girl could be a better wife than the one who always seemed to have an issue. Followed by another issue. You didn’t want to be that girl anymore. You wanted to be the girl who was more than her slips, rolls and falls. You wanted to be Viking.

“You already are Viking.” Ubbe said as he walked pridefully into camp, despite the blood that coated your legs. Ubbe sighs as he reaches the tent you shared with him– propping your leg up to treat it properly.

“I’m a burden.” You lean up on your forearms.

“Hush.” Ubbe pushes your head to the side playfully, caring for this break as he cared for all the others: with a careful hand. The pain was drowned out as your husband took care after the wound with Sigurd’s help. A change of bandages and a horn of heavy mead thrust you into a dreamlike state and before long, you’re snuggled up in bed by his shirtless chest, pawing at the curls on his pale chest. Sigurd must have slipped out. Or if he hadn’t, you were too roasted to notice.

“What if I’m never Viking?” You say, tinted by a drunken edge.

“You can be Viking, (Y/N), at home. Where you won’t sprain your ankle, take a fall and pop your legs open.” Ubbe says.

“But even then– my back and hip pains… what if I can’t give you a son?” You mumble, starting off for another rant when Ubbe’s forefinger comes to your lips.

“That is why we are here.” Ubbe says. “You wanted to come to Uppsala. Remember?”

You do– you remember begging Ubbe that he might take you to Uppsala to come kneeling to the gods as you always did. Year after year, but the pains seemed no less. The only difference was this year– there was someone to share your pain. In a way, perhaps that was the only sort of medicine you needed: newlywed love.

“I do.”


	10. Wishful Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heahmund is a jackass.

When you heard what happened to the Northman Ubbe, and his brother Hvitserk, you were outraged. Heahmund must have thought he could keep it from you: a slight princess that was weak in the knees for the big, bad Northman… but he couldn’t.

“You beat him!” You shriek as you chased him about.

“He is a heathen, my princess. There is no dealing with heathens.” Heahmund says as if it would make such difference to you. It didn’t. It enraged you further.

“Because he is a prince that came to deal with peace! Alfred said–” You begin, shaking your head just as you think of the correct words. “–he was doing no harm to you. You were savage.”

He was savage? Heahmund stares at you as you utter such words. He had deluded you to his side! Heahmund held his hands together in front of himself as he looks sharply at you– pondering just how deep your affiliation was with this heathen man.

“My princess… I can’t help to think. I can’t tell if you are jealous of the Northman or angry.” He says– and suddenly you feel your body light up into heat. Jealous of what? That you were stuck in this awful land with an awful father and a thick headed brother? That surely Alfred wouldn’t have let you go with him? Or worst of all– rethinking the night back, jealous of what could have been?

_“I could interest your father in peace with marriage.” The Northman hovered beside you as you stood with drink. You glanced back as his braid flopped over his shoulder, tugging the frayed ends of his hair with heavily ringed fingers._

_“That would be wishful thinking, my prince.” You tilted your face toward him and found the prickly hair of his beard tickles your nose from the closeness._

_“Is that not how your mother married him?” He asked. Sure it was. But they were Christian folk.. Heathens, no matter how much you didn’t care for religion, were different. Out of the corner of your eye you caught the Bishop with your father. He whispered something in his ear. The king would push his chair aside._

_“I’m too sober to deal with you teasing me of things that could never happen.” You sighed. Your father walked straight up to you and grasped your waist. You followed him back by the Bishop with the lightest of longing glances to Ubbe. At least… the Bishop couldn’t stop you from looking at him._

Except now, he had. Bishop Heahmund ruined it all– and you hated him for it.


	11. Can't Take It With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is a pampered princess.

His woman was a good one.

His home was always in spectacular shape. Everything had its place despite his twins best efforts, there was always food to be had and most of all, his more airheaded little son Sigurd was cared for. Bouncing wall to wall or finding something incredibly interesting for only minutes were the only two speeds he seemed to have. He could easily become frustrated, but at the moment, he was delightfully not at home.

Uncle Hvitserk the boys on a weeklong vacation. A nice, long weeklong break from the chaos while Ubbe sat with his computer pulled up to his bank, pages logging every inch and movement of your joined account and a checkbook at his side. You were of course at his side in a black slip, sweeping contentedly when Ubbe leaned back in his chair.

You already knew.

“You spent three hundred dollars on food?” Ubbe swept his fingers over the screen of his computer. It wasn’t so much that he cared about the price as much as the frequency of said price.

“Your boys are growing aren’t they? They like to eat. So I let them eat.” You mumble, booping his feet with the broom under his chair. He lifts them up in his lazy noir pajama pants, the muscles of his chest flexing as he leans forward into his seat.

“Of course they can eat.” Ubbe sighs– knowing that you’ve got him caught. “But… do you really need to spend that much at Sephora?

You know he’s talking about your card– with a Rouge membership in fact. You spent more than a little there. In fact you knew most of the men and women there, striking up tons of conversation over the silliest of things. As far as you were concerned, Ubbe was too tight with his finances. He had sooo much, but he squirreled it away just like Bjorn! The broom scratches the wall of the room as you abandon it, walking over to straddle him over the chair. He groans as you drop on him with the ties of a tiny white ruffled apron fiddling through his fingers.

“You like how I look for you, don’t you, baby?” You say, teasing your hands up his slender chest. Ubbe grunts in agreement, acknowledging how much he loves the way your make up sits on your skin– or how carefully you care after your skin and perfume yourself for him. Of course he knew that you were spoiled rotten for a housewife, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. You knew just how to entice him, drawing his hands down your hips that pillow over his lap before up along your waist to your breasts that push even against the tiny apron he asks you to wear.

“Yes.” He breathes just as you take him up in a harsh, breathy kiss. Your lips tainted by the rouge lipstick you applied smear his lips red, some coming off in his moustache just so slightly.

“Then to have all of this– you need to give mama a little to play with too.” You pull away from him, stealing a number of quick kisses as Ubbe groans.

“But do you have to spend so much…” Ubbe murmurs, clearly feel his pockets burning by the amount you spent. You told him a credit card would be easier– and he was starting to get the idea that he might as well. Your hands come atop of his shoulders, massaging the tenseness out of him.

“It’s not like you can take the money with you.” You say, picking a fight with him that he knew he would lose. You were too much… just like your spending habits. It was just the price that he was willing to pay.


	12. NSFW: Baby Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has an addiction to making babies.

You knew that Ubbe had a lot more kids then he let on. You would be a fool to think that your new husband was childless. The way Hvitserk and he scoped the ladies out in Kattegat even now, you knew that being single would have been a lot more dangerous for the women in Kattegat then now. Though you wouldn’t have brought it up for Ubbe not approaching you in the marketplace watching the little children run around with a ball. You weren’t exactly sure how he coerced you to the back of a building, leaning against the wall as Ubbe led his cock through your slick walls.

A thrust of his hips left you just so full of Ubbe’s cock. Your fingers curled against the wood as Ubbe slid out, hands at your hips only to push himself back inside. Your ass bounced against his hips, causing him to moan as you took him in. It was only meant to be a quick few minutes, nothing more, but Ubbe was kissing at your neck, pulling the neckline of your dress away for better access.

“Let me fill you.” You heard him say against your ear. Husky breaths escaped him while sliding his hand around underneath your skirts to run his fingers along your engorged slit. You reached between to grasp his hand, moaning as he gently ran his finger in flicks against your nub.

“It’s a bad day–” You complain. It only riles Ubbe harder, hips rolling with more force to hilt himself deep inside.

“Even better.” He takes a ragged breath. “You’d make the perfect mother.”

You want to complain– or huff at how he let his fetish take him over far too much but you can’t convince yourself when he begs please wife so nicely. Youre soaking his dick, riding his hips now for more and more of your husband. It doesn’t take you but minutes to come undone under his fingers and cock, giving in with your head lulling on his shoulder. Ubbe’s close, you can tell, growling and begging against your ear as your walls squeeze him. You grasp his chin, giving a light stroke to his beard.

“Do it.”

Its all the permission he needs, grasping your hips to sheathe himself completely inside. You gasp as his nails dig into your hips, hitting his peak and spilling ribbons of his seed as deep as he could. His hips rut up against yours, gasping and growling until his orgasm is chased away.

“What the hell was that?” You ask as he exhales sharply, gathering his breath. Ubbe slid his dick out, his seed spilling down your thighs.

“So… that might be my fetish.”


End file.
